


Cyclamen

by miceenscene



Series: Blooming in Adversity [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Death, F/M, Lung Cancer, Yes it is canon, You know what I mean, not much mayhem, well minus certain aspects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miceenscene/pseuds/miceenscene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I guess, I was silly to expect my happily ever after to last...well, ever after.  There's always a catch, a price to pay. I just didn't know how large a price it would be."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With a Capital T

“Cyclamen are a perennial flower, normally pink in color, and native to Europe… often associated with the meaning of resignation or good-bye…”

 

_I remember it was the perfect day for a picnic, which was wonderful because that’s what we were doing.  The five of us; John, Poppy, Johnny, Sherlock, and myself; had escaped London for an afternoon to celebrate Johnny’s 9 th birthday.  The sky was dotted with puffy white clouds and there was just enough wind to fly the kites we had brought.  It was glorious._

_“You’re it, Mum!” Johnny said, tapping me on the shoulder and running away.  I quickly jumped up and ran after him.  Poppy and John were attempting to fly one of the kites and Sherlock was sitting on the blanket, watching the whole scene with a gentle look of amusement.  Johnny was several yards ahead of me so I pushed myself to run faster, intending to catch him.  But the faster I ran, the harder it was to breathe.  I even had to stop moving all together to get some oxygen into my lungs.  I felt ridiculous panting and coughing like I had just sprinted a marathon, not jogged a few yards._

_“Mum!” Johnny shouted back to me, sounding very disappointed._

_“Mum needs to sit down, Johnny.” I managed between coughs as I walked slowly back to the blanket.  I dropped down next to Sherlock, who was watching me intently. “I’m fine. I’m fi-” I tried to say but the coughing didn’t stop._

_I thought perhaps there was some sort of pollen in the air that didn’t agree with my body as I continued convulsing with hacks and coughs.  I pulled out a hanky when some liquid escaped my mouth with a final cough.  I wiped it off my chin and glanced down at the hanky, the white fabric had been stained with red.  The metallic taste in my mouth confirmed that it was blood, my blood.  I glanced up to see Sherlock staring at me intently._

_“Are you alright?” John said, walking up to the blanket.  I quickly stuffed the hanky into my pocket; I would not ruin this wonderful day._

_“Fine. Just caught something in my throat.” I said, taking his hand as he sat down next to me.  I decidedly didn’t look at Sherlock who thankfully didn’t say anything, but instead stood up and uncharacteristically joined Johnny and Poppy in their game._

_Eventually, the sky became crowded with darker and darker clouds and we had to leave the lovely place.  Had I known that would be one of my last truly happy memories, I might have savored the day even more._

_“So Mrs. Watson. You wouldn’t happen to be related to Dr. Watson over at Barts?” Dr. Willis said, sitting down in the chair behind his desk._

_“Yes. He’s my husband.”_

_“Oh, brilliant. I met him last year at a conference in Bristol.” The unspoken question of what I was doing here at Kingston rather than Barts hung in the air.  It was only a week after the picnic, and the sight of blood on my handkerchief was enough to send me to the doctor, but not enough to alert John. “Anyway, the nurse has written here that you’ve been having trouble breathing, coughing, and coughing up blood. Any other odd behaviors you’ve noticed?”_

_“Well…I’ve lost weight recently, without really trying, I mean.  And I’ve been getting sick-er, vomiting.  I feel nauseous, then I vomit and I feel fine.  I almost bought a pregnancy test.” I smiled, but Dr. Willis’ face was stern._

_“Any other problems? Vertigo? Headaches?” he asked.  I paused and thought back over the past few months._

_“Headaches, yes.  I seem to get a couple a week.  No vertigo though.”_

_He nodded a few times, wrote a few notes on my file. “Well, Mrs. Watson, I’d like to address the breathing troubles first, so you’re going to get a chest x-ray and that should be ready in a few hours, then we’ll talk again.”_

 

 

            **I remember Mary was sitting by herself in the waiting room, staring rather intently at a painting of flowers, cyclamen to be specific, that hung opposite of her.  She didn’t look up till I sat down next to her.**

**“Sherlock. But how did you find me?” she asked.**

**“You weren’t at Barts, which would be the most logical place for you to go for a doctor’s appointment.  However, you are still a creature of habit and Kingston Hospital is where Johnny was born.  Easy enough.”**

**“Oh.” She turned back to look at the painting. “Why are you here? Did John send you?”**

**“I…I thought you might like some…support.” I said.  Her brow furrowed and she glanced at me.  Mary and I had long made peace, but I still wasn’t the sort of person to turn up uninvited, or even invited, for supporting someone at a doctor’s appointment.  However, that day I had my reasons for being there for Mary.  I’d noticed the weight-loss and general fatigue over the past few months, but coughing up blood was worse.**

**But before she could ask any questions, the doctor quickly approached with an x-ray envelope in hand.  He paused when he saw me.**

**“This is Sherlock Holmes.” Mary quickly introduced, standing up. “He’s a very close family friend.”  Dr. Willis, I could see the name on his badge, nodded and then gestured to an examining room nearby.**

**“This way, Mrs. Watson.” He said, opening the door.  Mary grabbed the cuff of my coat sleeve and pulled me into the room behind her.  She must have somehow known, between her own symptoms and my appearance that her appointment wasn’t going to be strictly routine.  Dr. Willis seemed a little flustered but closed the door anyway and turned on the backlight, putting up Mary’s chest x-ray.  There were several spots around the bronchial tube and a few more in each lung.  I glanced over to Mary to see if she understood what was shown before her, but it didn’t appear that she did.**

**“Well, I suppose the good news is that we know what is causing your breathing problems.  However, it appears to be tumors, but we won’t know till after you have a biopsy if it’s cancer.” He explained as delicately as one could.  But Mary froze up at the last word.  “I’ve already called over to the oncology department at Barts, and they amazingly have an opening next week. After the biopsy, you can consider where to go from there.”**

**Mary didn’t say anything; she was obviously in a state of shock.**

**“Mary?” he asked.  She blinked a few times and slowly nodded.**

**“Thank you…Doctor.”**

******“I’m also scheduling you for a CT scan.  If it turns out to be lung cancer, I’m worried it may have already metastasized.” Mary looked to me to explain.**

**“Spread to other parts of the body.” I said quietly.  She nodded again.**

**“Ah, may I have a copy of the x-ray?” she asked, rather slowly.  Dr. Willis frowned a little bit but then slid the sheet into the envelope and handed it to Mary.**

**She was quiet for almost the entire cab ride home.  But a few blocks away from her flat she asked,**

**“Will you be there? When I tell John.”**

**“Do you want me there?”**

**“Yes. Someone needs to be rational about this and I know neither of us will be.”**

**“When will you tell him?”**

**“As soon as possible.”**

To Be Continued…


	2. In Times that He Cried, In Bridges He Burned

            I remember it was a fairly normal scene to come home to.  Poppy and Johnny were sprawled over the couches watching some inane program on the telly.  Mary was making dinner; even Sherlock sitting on a stool in the kitchen wasn’t completely out of place.  Mary smiled when she saw me.

            “John.” She said, giving me a usual welcome-home kiss.  But the kiss was different this time, a little more fervent.

            “Welcome home kisses are never that long.” I joked. “What’s wrong?” Her lovely smile froze and she glanced to Sherlock who stood up and held a large envelope in his hand. “Something wrong on a case, Sherlock?” he turned to Mary.

            “Perhaps this would be better in the office.”

            Mary nodded and took my hand, leading me to the office and sitting me down in one of the chairs.  Sherlock shut the door behind him and then took the seat behind the desk, as if he was there to counsel us.  He slid the envelope across the empty desk to me. “Open it, John.” He directed.

            “You two are being very cryptic.” I said, pulling out a chest x-ray.  I examined it and let out a low whistle. “That doesn’t look good.  One of your victims die of lung cancer?” I glanced in the bottom corner, expecting to see the name blacked out, but ‘MARY WATSON’ was written in dark ink.  It felt like the world stopped turning, as I read those two words over again, hoping that I had just misread.  “Is this yours?” I asked, looking up at my wife.  Her face told me the answer before she said,

            “Yes. I went to Kingston today to check on the breathing troubles I’ve been having.”

            “Kingston? Why not Barts?” I asked.

            “I…I didn’t want to worry you.”

            “Worry me?! Mary, this is-”

            “John.” Sherlock spoke for the first time.  I glared at him then understood why Mary had brought him in; for once I was the one needing supervision.  I took a deep breath and flexed my left hand a few times.

            “I’m assuming they scheduled you for a biopsy?” I asked, quietly, attempting to keep the many emotions that were suddenly swirling through my mind at bay.  She nodded.

            “They had an opening next week. And the doctor also scheduled a CT scan, he thought…it may have already metastasized.” I slowly nodded and tried to comprehend everything that had just been dumped on me in the past few minutes.  Mary had canc-No, nothing would be certain till the biopsy.  No need to worry about something that could possibly never happen. But what if it does?, a little voice asked inside. I didn’t know the exact survival rates of lung cancer, but for some types they weren’t very high-Stop it! Mary was going to be in very good hands in the oncology department of Barts, I knew the head physician personally.  I had never doubted her before, but when it was Mary’s life on the line… I took a deep breath, trying to come up with a logical solution.

            “We could tell them you’re going in for surgery, but I don’t think we should tell Johnny about the tumors.  Not until we know if…something more is going on.”

            “What about Poppy?  She’s thirteen, not a child…but not an adult.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. “Neither of them should have to carry this…they shouldn’t have to know about things like this.” Her voice was weak.  I knelt beside her and gripped her into a hug, as if I was holding onto dear life.

 

 

 

_I don’t recall much about the week between that day and my biopsy.  The biopsy went as planned, I was released a few days afterwards and the results were due the day of my CT scan.  John and I sat in Dr. Neely’s office, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall.  She walked in, my file in her hands, and sat down behind the desk.  She tucked a strand of curly brown hair behind her ear and opened the file._

_“John, Mary.” She folded her hands and rested them on the desk.  John took my hand and I looked to him briefly._

_“What were the results?” John asked, his lips setting a thin line.  I knew it was killing him not to reach over and take the file in his own hands.  Dr. Neely sighed and she looked between us._

_“The tumors are malignant.  It looks to be small cell lung carcinoma,” John’s grip on my hand tightened till he was almost cutting off the circulation.  I glanced to him as she continued. “Which is normally associated with people who smoke. Do you smoke, Mary?” she asked, picking up a pen._

_“No.” I said, almost feeling like I had to justify myself._

_“Do you live or work with any smokers?”_

_“My father smoked almost constantly when I was growing up.” She nodded and wrote that down._

_“It says here that you grew up in Cornwall, which is another factor into your current condition. There are some very high levels of radon, which is a carcinogen, in Cornwall.  And it says there is a history of cancer in your family.”_

_I nodded again, taking a measured breath.  There was a pressing question on my mind but she didn’t appear to be answering it._

_“The trouble with SCLC is that it metastasizes quite early and your tumor growths are quite extensive.  The CT scan today will show us if it has indeed spread-”_

_“Do you think we could try chemotherapy or will radiotherapy work?” John interrupted._

_“Well Dr. Watson, SCLC has been proven to be very responsive to radiotherapy-”_

_“But there is a high relapse rate.” John finished her sentence.  She nodded and continued,_

_“Yes, exactly.”_

_“So perhaps chemotherapy might be better?”_

_“Well, we won’t-”_

_“Because I’ve heard of some eastern practices that have been rather successful with SCLC.”_

_“Those haven’t been proven clinically-”_

_“Wait!” I said, interrupting the quick exchange.  The doctors paused and turned to look at me, almost as if they had forgotten it was my body they were talking about. “Before we decide any treatments,” I glanced to John, “what is the survival rate of SCLC?”_

_John looked back to Dr. Neely._

_“You appear to be in the extensive stage of SCLC and the median prognosis is between 8 and 13 months, but some live well over 5 years.”_

_“How many?”_

_She paused then answered professionally, “Between 1 and 5%.”_

 

 

            Throughout my career as a physician, I’ve prescribed countless CT scans.  But this was the first time I was the one sitting out in the hallway, pacing and waiting for the results.  Mary had kissed me and whispered,

            “I’ll be fine.” Before being wheeled into the room.  I watched her till the door shut behind her, and I began walking up and down the hall.  I studied every painting on that hall like I was at an art gallery, anything to keep my mind occupied.  The hospital decorator seemed to have a strange fascination with a certain species of pink flower, it was in almost all of the paintings.  My phone buzzed and I gratefully read the text.

            Cancer? -SH

            As sensitive as ever, but somehow Sherlock’s straight to the point communication was strangely comforting.  At least one thing wasn’t changing.

            Yes. SCLC. She’s getting CT scan now. –JW

            Mrs. Hudson with Poppy and Johnny? –SH

            Yes. –JW

            He didn’t text back for a few minutes, then it finally came.

            I’m sorry, John. –SH

 

            Me too. –JW

 

            That night Mary and I pretended to sleep, but we were both awake being tortured by our personal demons.  Dr. Neely’s words after the CT scan ran through my mind, as if on repeat. “It appears to have metastasized to the brain” “Her headaches will continue to increase” “May experience behavioral changes” “Memory loss” “You need to consider which treatment options you will pursue” I forced myself to stop thinking about it, but the picture of Mary’s CT scan result was seared into my memory. 

            In the days after Sherlock died I felt surrounded in a fog, I could almost feel its approach again.  The never-ending guilt and despair that only Mary had managed to banish was returning.  It felt like a weight on my chest, not heavy enough to suffocate, but enough to cause a panic.  I sat up and found that Mary was already sitting up, hugging her knees to her chest.  She was taking very steady breaths, as if she was consciously thinking about it. __

“Have you ever felt like your body has betrayed you?” she asked, looking to me.  I slowly nodded.  Her bottom lip quivered and she bit it hard.  “John.” She sounded so small, so scared.  Without words I took her in my arms, her head resting on my chest and my finger pressed to her wrist, thankful for every steady pulse.

 

To Be Continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a reminder, italics is Mary Watson (Morstan), regular is John Watson, and bold is Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Not While I'm Around

_“Poppy, can you come here for a minute?” I asked, poking my head into her room.  She looked up from her book._

_“Do I have to?”_

_“Yes.” I said.  She put down the book and followed me into Johnny’s room, where John was tucking him into bed.  He patted the space next to him and Poppy sat down, John wrapping an arm about her.  I sat next to Johnny, pulling him close like I used to when he was very small._

_“Remember when Mum had her surgery a couple weeks ago?” John asked.  The two kids nodded solemnly.  I could see that Poppy could sense that something was wrong, she wasn’t as observant as Sherlock or Mycroft but she was still very attentive. “Well, the doctors found out that Mum has …what is called cancer, it’s type of disease that is very…dangerous.” Poppy stiffened and stared at me.  I pressed a kiss on the top of Johnny’s head, running my fingers through his blonde hair. “She’s going to be taking a lot of medicines that won’t make her feel very good…but hopefully, they’ll make her better.”_

_“How long do they say you’ll live?” Poppy asked.  Johnny sat up in alarm and looked to me, I smiled reassuringly._

_“We’re not going to think like that.” Lie. “We’re going to remain positive.” Not so much a lie as practically impossible. “Alright?” I asked her.  She nodded, but could see that I was lying.  It was still better than telling her that I might not live to see her next birthday._

**Chemotherapy is one the more unpleasant treatments still practiced in medicine.  The purpose almost seems to be to kill enough of the body so as to kill the cancerous cells, but not the whole entity.  It’s almost as taxing on the family of the patient as the patient herself.  They know the cost of the medicine, but it’s better than throwing up the white flag and giving in.**

**John asked me to sit with them as Mary received her first treatment.  She was cocooned in blankets and had a large number of needles and tubes fixed on her body.  Her eyes were closed and it almost seemed like she could be asleep, except she opened her eyes and smiled when I walked in the room.**

**“Thank God. Please tell me you have a case to talk about with John.” She said with almost too much cheerfulness for the room.  I stopped and looked to John, who shrugged his shoulders.**

**“I did, actually. You want us to discuss it here?”**

**“Yes. Anything to think about except these needles in my arms.” She said, resting her head back against the chair.**

**“We tried the telly, but there was nothing on.” John explained.**

**“You called me down here… as entertainment? I’m not a court jester.” I insisted.  Mary smirked.**

**“Really? Because you’re doing your job quite nicely.”**

**“I was interrupted in the middle of a very important experiment.”**

**“Were you seeing how toe fungus affects the bruising patterns of 53-year-old cabbies again?” Mary asked.  John chuckled a little.**

**“I’m leaving.  Most social niceties are unknown to me, but I do know that laughing in a cancer ward is not generally accepted.” But Mary simply rolled her eyes.**

**“Stay Sherlock.” I considered leaving the room, even took a step back. “Come on, I’m dying, you have to humor me.”**

**I could see John stiffen at the mention of Mary’s death, but she was not bothered.  If anything, being sarcastic about the whole affair seemed to help her, a distancing technique.  Joke about the cancer and perhaps it will go away and be some amusing memory.  But she was right, dying patients are generally humored, even if it’s a rather strange form of humor.**

**“I don’t see why. People die every day. Death is nothing special.” I returned.  John leveled a very harsh look at me, but Mary seemed almost grateful.**

**“Oh, but I am special.  Female, non-smoking victim of SCLC.  I’m practically a unicorn.”**

**The verbal sparring match continued for the rest of the treatment, John mostly just watching in horrified amazement.  But when we helped Mary into the cab, he turned to me and said,**

**“Thank you, Sherlock.  You made it…bearable, somehow.” I nodded.  Then he got in the cab and they drove away.**

 

 

             A week or so after the treatment started, I awoke one night.  I can’t recall what woke me but I immediately noticed that Mary was not next to me.  I blinked a few times and looked around the room, noticing light slipping out from under the closed bathroom door.  I waited for her to return to bed, but she seemed to be taking an exceptionally long time.  The chemo had caused her some severe nausea, but even then she never took that long. 

             So I got up and gently knocked on the door, pushing it open.  She was standing over the sink, with a handful of her poppy red hair.  She glanced up and looked to me through the mirror, then looked back down at her hand.  I walked up and stood next to her, and she put the hair in my hand.  She always wore her hair long, so it was quite a bit of hair.  It had come from the right side of her head, where she had a habit of running her fingers through her hair.

             We looked at each other’s reflections for a minute, then the side of her mouth slipped up in a smile.  Suddenly, a little chuckle escaped her lips and then she was fully laughing.  It was beautiful, hearing her laugh again.  I couldn’t help but join in.

            “Oh, I look ridiculous.” She said, still slightly chuckling and looking at herself in the mirror.  She pulled a brush from a drawer and jerked it through her thinning hair, the brush coming away thick with poppy red hair.  “You know what, where’s your electric razor?”

            “Are you sure?” I asked.  She smiled a bit.

            “It’s better than looking like this while we wait for the rest to go.”

             It took a while but soon there was a large pile of hair on the floor and her scalp was pale and smooth.  She stared at herself in the mirror, turning her head side to side, examining the look from several different angles.

            “I look like my Uncle Pete.” She frowned.  I took her chin in my hand, tilting it down so I could kiss the top of her head.  The faint scent of her shampoo still lingered on the bare skin.

            “No. You look beautiful.”

 

To Be Continued…


	4. Half Ecstatic, Half Dejected

_Dr. Neely turned on the backlight and put up two chest x-rays.  My first one and the one they had taken today were side by side.  There were still a few spots on my lungs, but most had disappeared.  I couldn’t help but smile and breathe a sigh of relief._

_“Thank you, Dr. Neely.” John said, kissing the side of my head.  My chemo treatments had stopped a few weeks ago and I had a layer of very short hair growing on my head.  It felt a little like velvet, soft one way and prickly if you rubbed it the other way.  Dr. Neely smiled and nodded._

_“This are very good results. But you both know that the relapse rate for SCLC is very high.  So I’d like to schedule bi-weekly check-ups to begin with, then after that we can go for once a month. Still congratulations.”_

_  
_

_We all walk around with expiration dates, but cancer has a strange way of making you painfully aware of the existence of that date.  It makes you think of each day as having a little more significance, because who knows how many days like it will you have left? It makes you want to let go of old burdens and reach out to forgotten memories._

_This all weighed upon my mind as I drove to Cornwall a few weeks later.  So much had changed in my life, but the house I pulled up to was the same as ever._

_The small square of lawn was manicured and the old wishing well had a fresh coat of paint.  The porch still sagged in that one spot and there were still pots of Mum’s favorite flower: cyclamen.  I walked up the steps and rang the doorbell, adjusting my scarf and feeling very self-conscious._

_“Coming.” A gruff voice sounded from behind the door as my father opened it._

_“Hi, Dad.” I said simply. I hadn’t spoken to my father in many years, not since I joined the RAF.  ‘I was scared of my father and you damned-well better be scared of me’ his voice, slurred with alcohol, echoed in my memory.  He had succeeded, I practically ran away from home the minute I legally could, but not before joining the RAF instead of his precious Marines.  One final act of defiance that effectively severed all ties I had with him, till this moment._

_He looked the same as I remembered him, but there was less hair and it was greyer. There were more lines around his mouth and between his eyebrows._

_I could see him already forming judgments about my buzz-cut like hairstyle and baggy clothes so I said, “May I come in?”_

_He grunted a reply and walked away from the door, leaving it open behind him.  The living room was still the same as I the day I left: old telly, two chairs and a loveseat. A coffee table with photo albums stacked below it.  On top of the telly were still old school photos of me and photos of my mother and father at their wedding._

_I followed Dad into the kitchen where he was filling a teapot with water and turning on the stove.  I sat down at the dining table and silence consumed the room, till he handed me a mug of tea.  I took a sip, two sugars and a small amount of cream, he remembered._

_“This place is exactly like I remember it.” I said, looking at the strange rooster motif Mum had decided to decorate the kitchen in.  Dad didn’t say anything.  “Though much has changed since then.” I looked to Dad, who was staring at his cup, stirring the milky liquid around.  He didn’t seem ready to add to the conversation so I continued,_

_“I became a flight lieutenant, in the RAF, one of the youngest ones they’ve ever had.  Then I was a captain for Air England for a while, ran the loop between London and Washington D.C.” More silence. “I got married. His name is John Watson, he’s a former army doctor and now has his own practice at St. Barts.  You’d like him.” He wasn’t even looking at me. Why was I telling him this? He didn’t care. But dammit, I wanted him to care. “We live in the city, with our two kids.  You’re a granddad.” I wanted him to look at my life and see how good it was in spite of him. “Their names are Jennifer, you know after Mum, and John, it’s a tradition to name the first son John in his family.  But we call them Poppy and Johnny. She’s thirteen and Johnny’s nine.” I wanted him to regret all the memories he missed.  I wanted him to regret depriving Poppy and Johnny of a loving grandfather.  Depriving John of a father-in-law.  Depriving me of my own Dad.  I could feel my bottom lip start to quiver and my voice was thick as I continued._

_“Things are going great, Dad.” Please Dad. Just say you’re sorry Dad. “Obviously not perfect.  Poppy struggles with maths.” We can start over Dad. “And Johnny can’t seem to concentrate at all in school.” I want you to be in my life Dad. “Medical bills are high, chemotherapy isn’t cheap.” I want you to come to Poppy’s choir concerts, see Johnny play football Dad.  I want you and John to argue over whose team is going to win the final Dad. “And… I have lung cancer.” I want you Dad.  “I’m in remission now but we don’t know how long it’s going to last.” I need you Dad. “Survival rates aren’t very high.” I love you Dad. “I’ll be lucky to see Christmas again.” I’m sorry Dad. “Daddy?”_

_He looked up from his mug, the expression on his face was unfathomable.  But there was no heartfelt apology on his lips.  No promises to make-up for the time he lost with me, with us.  A feeling welled up inside of me, a mixture of sorrow and pity for his inability to overcome and for my inability to help him.  I took several deep breaths to staunch the tears that were threatening to escape from me, I had cried too many times in front of this man._

_So I nodded, stood up and walked out of the house without saying another word.  The tears were kept at bay till that night, when it was just John and myself alone in the dark.  No words were spoken between us, but none were needed.  He understood, understood that I just needed to be held._

 

 

              For a while, everything returned to a strange state of normal.  Mary still went in for her regular check-ups, but one could almost pretend that the cancer had just been a very bad dream.  In reality, we were all just holding our breath.  It was just the calm before the storm.  I used the time to the best of its ability.  We had Mary back to us, she may have been a little weaker than before, but she was still all there. 

               But the hints started coming, the clouds started forming in our blue sky.  The first one I remember was one evening in the kitchen.  We were making dinner and she turned to the fridge.

              “Hand me an onion, dear?” I asked, picking up a knife and holding out my hand.  I looked to her when one wasn’t placed in my hand.  Her hands were covering her face and she let out a soft moan. “Mary?” I quickly went to her side, one hand on her back and the other pressing to her forehead, as if to check for a fever.

              “I’m fine.” She shook her head; her eyes were still closed. “Just suddenly dizzy and-” she cringed “Oh, headache.”

              “Do you want to go lie down?” I asked. She thought about it for a minute then slowly nodded.  She took a step, but almost fell to the floor.

              “Help me?” she looked up at me, her face a mixture of slight amusement at her currently helpless state and pain from the headache.  I helped her into our bed and finished making dinner.  The next day she was just fine, but the memory stayed in the back of my mind.

 

              A few weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night.  At first I couldn’t tell what had awoken me.  The room was dark and still, but then I heard it: the sound of Mary violently coughing and vomiting in the bathroom.  The surge of adrenaline practically lifted me off the bed and I ran for the door, forcing it open.

              She was kneeling in front of the toilet; a box of tissues at her side and a pile of bloodied ones on the other.  I knelt down beside her and held back her short hair from her face as she retched into the bowl.  It was mostly just bile, but it had been tinged with the blood from her mouth and throat, turning it a disturbing shade of orange.  She groaned and rested her head against the cool porcelain.

              “We need to go to the hospital.” I said, standing up and intending to put together a few things before we left.

              “No.” she managed, a few more coughs escaping her chest.

              “Mary, don’t be ridiculous. This is serious.”

              “I’m not-” she coughed and gagged on the blood. A few more heaves came from her empty stomach.  When that wave subsided, she began again, attempting to wipe away the mess on her chin. “Not being ridiculous. Johnny has his science fair today.”

              “That’s not important.”

              “Yes, it is.  He’s worked so hard on that project.” She insisted between more fits of coughing.

              “No. You need a doctor NOW! To HELL with the science fair!!” I shouted, not caring if I woke up the whole neighborhood.

              “How many science fairs do you think I have left, John?!” she shouted back, a few tears escaping her eyes. “I just need to be there for them as much as I can.  I won’t get to be there for our grandchildren, or weddings, or graduation, or driving lessons. I don’t know if I’ll even get to see Poppy without her braces!!” With each word, the tears flowed more freely. “So you will have to drag me from this room if you think I’m going to miss that science fair.”

               I felt my resolve weakening and I knelt down beside her.  These were all truths I had thought before, but hearing them voiced by her, especially in her current state, made them hurt more.  I took deep breaths, trying to calm my emotions.  I wanted to be strong for her, give her something to hold onto in this time.

              “Please, John.” She begged quietly, more tears following. “I just need more time with them …and you.”  I nodded fiercely and gripped her in a hug, burying my face in her neck.  Her scent was still as comforting as ever, but the thought that it would soon fade-no. Now was not the time to think about such things.  I needed to be there for her, the one to chase away her bad dreams.  Not let myself be consumed by worry and grief.

               “Thank you.” She whispered, another cough escaping her chest.

 

To Be Continued…


	5. Somewhere a Place for Us

**John was sitting by himself on the park bench when I approached, a cooling cup of coffee in his hand.  He looked up at me; there were very large dark circles under his eyes.**

**“Sherlock.” He said, as I sat down.**

**“John.” For a while, neither of us spoke.  He had been the one to call the meeting.  I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, but I knew he was spending as much time with Mary and the children as he could spare.**

**“It’s back.” He finally said, glancing at me but mostly looking at the park.  I didn’t have to ask to know what he meant.  Relapse rates for SCLC were high, but everyone had seemed to hope that Mary would somehow beat the odds. “Dr. Neely is open to trying another round of chemo and radiotherapy, but Mary-” he stopped and took a deep breath. “Mary is refusing.  Says she doesn’t want to spend her last months feeling like that.”**

**Mary had been miserable during her chemotherapy treatments, severe nausea, bone pain and the hair loss.  It was an understandable choice, if a difficult one.**

**“What do you think?” I asked him.  He looked to me then shook his head, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.**

**“I don’t know.” He admitted. “I can see why she doesn’t want to be like that again…but then, this time might completely kill the cancer.  But she was so miserable.” He paused and his voice was thick when he spoke again. “Why her, Sherlock? …Why did it have to be Mary? Why not me? Why not someone who’s in prison, you know? Why-why her?”**

**I didn’t respond, because I had no answer.  I knew physically why Mary had the cancer, but I couldn’t explain why she had been the one who was given this…fate, for lack of a better term.  Life and death, at the core, is a very simple idea.  But the implications and ramifications make it impossible to explain, especially to one who is experiencing it.  John lost any pretense at not crying; it was evident in his shaking shoulders.**

**“I don’t want to lose her, Sherlock.  I’m not ready for her to die.” His voice broke and I put a hand on his shoulder.  It was the only thing I could do at the time.**

**“None of us are.”**

_I began having night terrors.  I dreamt I was at the bottom of a very deep pit with sloping sides.  I would almost make my way out of the pit but then the sides would become muddy and soft and I would begin sliding backwards.  No matter how fast I climbed, or how much I yelled, no one comes to help and I slide back to the bottom.  Many times I would wake John and myself with panicked cries.  He would just hold me till I went back to sleep and the dream would begin again._

_The two chest x-rays were side by side, the one on the left was from when I went into remission.  The one on the right was the one they took earlier that morning.  It looked much more like the very first x-ray I had._

_“We could try chemotherapy and radiotherapy again.” Dr. Neely said, standing by the backlight.  I was sitting in one of the chairs, alone.  John had been unable to come to the appointment that day.  For that I was grateful, he didn’t need to see the full extent of the regression._

_“Will it completely stave it off?” I asked, looking up at her.  She pulled up a seat and honestly answered,_

_“Most likely, no.  But it will give you a few more months.”_

_I barked a laugh. “Not sure a few more months would be worth it feeling like that.” I said quietly. “If I didn’t seek anymore treatment, how much longer can I reasonably expect?”_

_“As your physician, I cannot recommend that you not seek-”_

_“I know.” I interrupted her. “How long can I expect?” I repeated.  Dr. Neely sighed and looked down at her chart._

_“Given the symptoms you’ve described, I’d say around two or three months.”_

_I nodded. “Christmastime…perfect.” I said sarcastically, calculating the time in my head._

_“Do you want to discuss this with John?” she asked.  I looked back to her._

_“We’ve already talked about it.” I took a breath and tried to wrap my mind around the fact of my encroaching death one more time.  It was one thing to talk about it when there was hope, when we were still trying to outrun it.  But now that we had stopped, sat down and were just waiting for its imminent arrival, it was suddenly different.  “What can we expect in the next months?”_

_Dr. Neely’s dark eyes were full of pity for a minute, then she answered, “Your body will continue to atrophy.  Memory loss, dementia, and behavioral changes are all to be expected.  You will probably soon need an oxygen tank as breathing will continue to become more difficult…”_

_It was slow at first.  Like trying to push a boulder down a hill.  October finished and nothing much had changed, or at least grown any worse.  I began having trouble breathing after walking long distances, and then the distances became shorter and shorter.  The oxygen tank came to me in mid-November.  At first it was just on an as needed basis, the need for which increased much too fast.  By early December it became a permanent fixture, always at my side, puffing life into me._

_I began having more absent-minded moments, couldn’t remember the name of Poppy’s maths teacher during a conference.  John’s work phone number disappeared one day.  My year of graduation from the RAF academy went missing. John was always happy to supply the information when I couldn’t find it, but I could see the worry behind his calm expression._

_It was strange the way it felt.  It was like a wall that built itself, brick by brick, separating me from the world outside.  Some days I could get over the wall and the only thing that kept me from feeling normal was my inability to breathe.  But then other days, it’s like I was trapped.  I could hear and see everything, but could control nothing.  Whatever came out of my mouth, whatever action I took, did not come from me.  At first the free days outnumbered the trapped days, then slowly but surely, I couldn’t get out most days._

_Mostly, I felt tired.  Tired of not being able to take a full breath.  Tired of feeling like a stranger in my own body.  Tired of the gigantic effort it took to simply get out of bed.  Tired of fighting for every simple action.  Tired of seeing the false hope on my family’s faces.  Tired of being a burden to them.  Tired of dreading Christmas.  Tired of wanting it to arrive simply so I could let go.  Tired of slowly dying.  Tired of living._

 

To Be Continued…


	6. They Have Their Seasons, So Do We

**There are few things in this world that I can say have honestly shocked me.  But seeing Mary sitting there, in a chair in the front room with a blanket wrapped around her legs and an oxygen tank by her side, is one of them.  She was very thin, her cheeks had hollowed out and the clavicles were extremely pronounced.  She was a shell of Mary, sleeping peacefully with the winter sun on her skin.**

**“She should be fine, she’s eaten already. And I’ll be back around 2:30, before the kids get home from school.” John’s instructions reminded me of the few times I had been entrusted with the care of Johnny and Poppy.  I suppose it was rather the same. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.” I nodded.**

**“We’ll be fine.”**

**He took a short breath and nodded quickly, as if he needed to convince himself.  He pressed a kiss to Mary’s head and left the flat.**

**I waited till he was gone then sat in the chair across from Mary, watching her closely.  Her chest barely rose and fell, despite the oxygen tank.  Ten minutes after John left, she stirred a little.**

**Her eyes opened and she slowly lifted her head.  She blinked a few times and looked at me.  At first it was a calm gaze, the way one might look at a stranger on the tube.  Then she blinked a few times and the gaze became more intense, like she was fighting to remember.**

**“…Sherlock…” she said, like she was assigning me a name.  I nodded.**

**“Yes, Mary.”  She continued blinking and with each blink she became more lucid, more like Mary.  She looked around the flat.**

**“Where’s…John?”**

**“He had to go out.  Christmas shopping.” She thought about this for a bit.**

**“What’s today?”**

**“December 22 nd.” I answered briefly.  She looked worried for a minute, like that wasn’t the answer she had been expecting.  **

**“Almost…Christmas.” She leaned back in the chair, like the six words had exhausted her. “I’m almost there, Sherlock.” John had told me that she would have brief moments of lucidity, but this was almost beyond mere lucidity.  She sounded and looked much more like Mary than the woman who I had seen sitting in the chair when I came in.**

**“Almost there?”**

**She slowly nodded and continued, “I’m…not ruining Christmas…not giving them that…burden.”**

**Suddenly, it dawned on me.  She was holding out till Christmas, not wanting to overcast the day with memories of her death.  She let out a long breath and continued slowly but with meaning.**

**“I’m tired, Sherlock…so tired.”**

**“You can sleep if you want.”**

**“Not that…kind. …Every day…is…is a struggle.”**

**I had no words to say to her but she continued anyway,**

**“Almost there…almost there…almost…there.” For a moment it seemed like the lucidity was fading, like her connection to the real world was dying, but then she leaned forward with her eyes locked on me. “Take care of them, Sherlock.” She charged me. “All of them. You…owe me.”**

**All I could do was nod and promise, “I will.”**

**“Good.” She leaned back in the chair and looked out the window beside her.  I watched her for a few minutes, her face was placid, the opposite of the dance of emotions that it used to hold.  A little while later she looked back to me, but Mary was gone.**

**When John returned, several shopping bags in hand, she was still awake and looking out the window.**

**“Thank you Sherlock.” He said, picking up a strand of her hair and moving it out of her face.  She looked up at him and smiled blithely.  I nodded and stood up, picking up my coat and preparing to leave. “Did she say anything?”**

**I mentally ran over the conversation we had, the responsibility she had given me, and knew that none of it was meant for John.  I shook my head. “She…didn’t say anything...lucid.”  John nodded and showed me out of the flat.**

**“Any Christmas plans?” he asked.**

**“Mum is arranging some horrid family affair, so I’ll be there with Mycroft.” John smiled a little.**

**“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”**

**“You too, John.”**

**Before I got in the cab, I looked back up at the window.  Mary was looking down at me, she slowly raised a hand to wave good-bye.**

 

 

            Christmas morning dawned and Mary was still with us.  I carried her to the living room, where the kids were already waiting.

            “Happy Christmas!” they yelled, already having distributed the presents.  I don’t think Mary quite understood what was happening, but she picked up on the joyous feel of the day.  She happily watched the kids as they opened their presents, and gave me a beautiful smile when I showed her the necklace I had gotten her.  It had the kids’ birthstones on a silver chain, something that she would have worn everyday.  I put it around her thin neck and she gently touched the stones, her face genuinely happy.

             The day passed quietly, we had chosen to forgo the traditional Christmas feast and the invitations we had received to join others in theirs. Poppy was rapidly consuming the chemistry book she had received, and Johnny was methodically building the plane from the model set. Mary sat quietly, not saying anything at all, but just watching the children.  I sat beside her, holding her hand and enjoying the moments we had.

 

 

_Christmas had finally come.  And the day was almost over.  I had fought the entire day, trying to break through that damned wall.  Or find a way over, but there was no getting around it this time.  All I could do was sit there passively and watch the day pass by.  I had fought to hard to get to this day and I was missing it._

_But then suddenly, the wall disappeared.  It was a little shocking at first, to instantaneously feel so awake.  I looked around and John was not there.  He must have been putting the kids to sleep.  He returned to the living room, running a hand through his hair._

_“John?” I asked.  He looked to me quickly, a look of surprise on his face.  Who knows how long it had been since I had last spoken his name._

_“Mary?” he knelt before me.  I looked his face over, trying to memorize every inch of it.  I didn’t know how long I would have before the wall returned, but I suddenly found myself at a loss of exactly what to say._

_“I’m sorry I missed Christmas.” I felt a tear escape my eye. “I wanted to be here…”_

_He looked confused for a minute, then shook his head. “No, you were here. You were here, I promise.”_

_“I wanted to make it special for you.” Another tear left my eye.  I could hear the tears gathering in his voice._

_“You have. You have.” His fingers brushed my cheek, and rested against the side of my face._

_I tried to speak again, but the word wouldn’t come to me.  The wall began to rebuild-NO! More time! I just needed more time! Please! With a final effort, I pushed the wall down long enough to say,_

_“I love you, John. I love you.”_

_He leaned in and kissed me.  I kissed him back with every bit of strength I possessed.  I love you John, and I always will._

                 As I leaned away, I could see the difference, she had left again.  It felt like a punch to the gut.  It had been two weeks since she had last been lucid with me, and this brief glimpse was the best gift she could have given me.  It hurt, hurt worse than any injury I’d ever had.  But I wouldn’t have traded those minutes for anything in the world.  I waited a minute, searching her face and hoping that she would somehow return.  But she didn’t.

                 I took a deep breath, nodding and flexing my left hand.  I looked back up to her.

                “I’m ready for bed, how about you?”

                 She didn’t answer.

 

                 I awoke very early the next morning.  The house was very quiet and still, the birds outside weren’t making any noise.  The only sound came from the puffs of air from Mary’s oxygen tank.  I rolled over to look at her.

                 She looked very peaceful, red hair fanned over the white pillowcase.  The room was very dim, so you couldn’t see just how thin she had become.  She looked more like the old Mary, my Mary, than she had in a while.  I gently ran two fingers over her cheek, waking her up like I had for many years now. 

                 But she didn’t move.

                 My heart beat loudly in my ears. My muscles tensed.

                “Mary?” I whispered, gently shaking her shoulder.  I pressed two fingers to her neck.

                 Nothing.

                “Mary?” my voice became more desperate.  I leaned down next to her mouth.  No breath came out. Jesus. No. No. No. Not now. I grabbed the cell phone and called 999, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder and starting CPR.  Just more time. Please. Not now. I’m not ready. No. I’m not ready! You can’t leave. No. Don’t go Mary. No. Please, God. No.

 

To Be Continued…


	7. A Promise Lives Within You Now

**On December 26 th, my cell phone rang at 5:28.  The number for Barts showed on the caller ID.**

**An hour later, I walked into the waiting area of the A & E.**

**“Mary Watson? …Or John Watson?” I asked a passing nurse.  She pointed to the far side of the area.**

**John sat there, alone.  He was staring at the floor.  His face was emotionless and empty.  The vacant expression in his eyes as he looked at me was chilling.**

**“She’s gone, Sherlock.” He said when I sat down next to him. “She died this morning.” His hand was shaking as he attempted to control himself. “I was too late to save her.” His voice broke.  He abruptly stood up and slammed his hands against the wall opposite of him.  “DAMN IT!” He shouted, then crumpled to the floor.  A few tear-filled sobs escaped him.  I sat down on the floor beside him, staring down any orderly that tried to move us.  I couldn’t help him, but I could protect him.**

**We sat there for several hours, people passed and John grieved.  Mary’s final words to me repeated again and again in my mind.  I would take care of him, of Poppy, of Johnny, in any way I knew how.**

 

            The fog that surrounded me was all consuming.  In those first dark days it was hard to summon the will to do anything.  Somewhere in my mind I knew that Poppy and Johnny needed me, but I felt so helpless.  Like I couldn’t do anything right.  But whenever I did manage to briefly escape the fog, Sherlock was there.  He practically moved in with us, he was there so often.  There isn’t anything that I could do to repay him for that.

            I barely remember Mary’s funeral, it was all a haze of dark colors and familiar faces.  What I do remember is standing at her grave, Sherlock by my side.

            “Are you alright?” he asked.  I looked to him then back to the stone.

            ‘Mary Ellen Watson, Loving Wife and Mother’ She had specified that her stone would be simple, no dates or sentiments.  She had thought the dates cluttered up the stone, and the sentiments were creepy.  Several bouquets of flowers were laid around the stone, including a pot of her favorite pink cyclamen.

            “No.” I answered. “…but I will be. I will be for them.” I looked across the graveyard to Poppy and Johnny who were with my parents waiting by the cars.

            “I’m here…for you, John.” Sherlock said.  I looked to him and nodded.

            “I know.”

 

            Hours turn into days, and days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months, and I fought.  Mary once told me that the only way to change anything was to fight for it, so I did.  I fought everyday to get through that fog.  I fought for Poppy and Johnny and even Sherlock.  But mostly I fought for Mary.  I was not going to desecrate her memory by letting myself wallow in pity.  It was still difficult, some days were easier than others.  Sometimes I could almost pretend that life was okay, but other times I could barely bring myself to get out of bed.

            One day, I received a letter from Mary’s father.  I had never spoken to the man and knew very little about him, only that he and Mary hadn’t been on speaking terms since she was 18.  The letter was very short, only said that he was sorry. And that if I ever needed anything to call him.  I don’t know why, but I found myself going to his house a few days later.  Neither of us spoke much, but it was a start.  It was something that would have made Mary happy.

            Between Sherlock and myself, we managed to pull the household back together into some form of normalcy.  It wasn’t perfect, Sherlock and Poppy argued quite a bit and Johnny became almost mute in the months following Mary’s death.  But we managed. 

             Life is strange in that it continues.  Always.  Even when you feel like the world should just stop turning, it doesn’t.  The days keep passing.  The children begin to grow up, faster than you would like.  Every milestone is bittersweet, because she’s not there to share it with us.  I’m not a religious person, but somehow I know that Mary is watching, laughing as Sherlock and I struggle to get the kids out the door on time, when she managed to do it all by herself.  She’s proud as Johnny becomes a captain in the RAF.  She’s happy when she sees Poppy go into medical school and have a little girl of her own named Mary.

             Life continues.  It goes on.  It changes.  I don’t know what it holds in store next.  But I know that Mary will always be watching and Sherlock will always be at my side.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story. For those of you who are wondering, Mary Morstan’s death is canon. However, Doyle neglected to stipulate a cause of death, so I was left to my own devices. And yes, in canon, Watson remarries…but I don’t think I shall write that story. I doubt I could bring myself to write another character that I’d love as much as Mary. I have never walked the road of cancer, so I’m certain some of the medical details are incorrect and I apologize for that. Obviously, some artistic license was taken with the whole ‘wall’ bit. But anyway, review please, I am always learning and you are my best teachers. Again, thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoy reading stories with music in the background, so if you are so inclined I listened to Arrival of the Birds, Transformation, and To Build a Home by The Cinematic Orchestra, Allt Varð Hljótt by Olafur Arnalds, Dark Night of the Soul by Philip Wesley, End Credits (Pride & Prejudice) by Jean-Yves Thibaudet, Follow You Down to the Red Oak Tree by James Vincent McMorrow, A Thousand Years by Christina Perri, and Blood on the Pavement by David Arnold & Michael Price whilst writing. All of these songs can be found on the tube of you’s. Any suggestions/comments you have are welcome.


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